Author Archives: treetrunkrick

Mon coeur

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The kousa dogwood trees next to the backyard deck suffered poorly in last year’s drought.

But they survived and sprout leaves but no blooms.

I am left here, sitting on the chair my grandfather resided upon when playing the card game of Rook with family at his house outside Maryville, Tennessee, USA.

I am left here, as I always am, alone. 

Alone with my thoughts.

The cat wanders around, wanting to go outside of this house-sized cage, back to the wooded neighbourhood she played in as a small feline huntress. 

The sunroom clicks and pops as it always has, whether I’m in here writing or not, expanding and contracting with ambient temperature changes and solar radiation.

“Seek first to understand, then to be understood,” a phrase from Stephen Covey’s 7 habits of highly effective people, repeats itself briefly in my thoughts.

I am back here, alone with my thoughts, as I always will be, have been, and am.

I highly value my alone time but at the same time wish there was someone(s) with whom I could equally share thoughts.

Is it even possible?

[What is a better word than ‘even’?]

Is it ever possible?

We learn from our differences, do we not?

If I desire an equal, why do I also hear the phrase, “PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT PEOPLE LIKE ME AS A MEMBER“?

I am alone but not lonely, forever protected by my creativity, no matter how commonplace or phantasmagoric.

What do I mean when I say I want independence?

I want to continue to be a kind, loving person, as much as it is in my snobby sense of unique selfishness to be so.

I already think and write what I want, taught to use profanity judiciously as a gentleman.

A strong rain storm batters the metal roof of the sunroom, sending my body’s hearing centre into screaming loud noise mode until I turn off my hearing aids and turn them into earplugs.

There will always exist temporal, contemporary family/social issues that one such as me can think and write about — human history repeats itself continually.

From/for what am I seeking independence?

At this moment, I’m not sure, I don’t know, and am comfortable with the condition of uncertainty.

The rain storm passes by, leaving the pings and pops of water dripping off tree leaves and limbs.

What I seek, I seek alone, sometimes attributing my artistic inspiration to the dead (Covey/Marx) and sometimes to the living (friends/family).

I know I am not the only one who grows tired of me, just as others grow tired of themselves and their friends/family grow tired of them sometimes, too (some will fear it even when no one tires of them).

I recall the scene where Malcolm McDowell, playing Caligula, wants to know what a dying person (Sir John Gielgud?) sees of death, more concerned with sating his curiosity than in saving the man’s life, if I remember correctly.

A whole universe to explore yet today it is my internal landscape I want to remap, unsure if something has changed since my last visit, willing to destroy my mental stability to dig up a single flawed microscopic gem of a new idea.

As I always have, never satisfied with being nearly the same person in consecutive moments.

The costs are high but the rewards have always been higher.

Some call it losing my mind, I call it the greatest personal amusement ride I’ll ever know, drug-free, no amusement park fees or AR/VR headset costs necessary.

The dense patch of water vapour (rain storm) passes, exposing this section of Earth to direct view of our local star again.

So, if my mental independence is like today’s meditation session here in a place that already is paid for (but needs tens of thousands of dollars in renovation to bring it up to modern design standards), with a caretaker who has known me since I was 12 (a/k/a my wife), what am I still seeking?

No one else but me has the answer. 

However, my friends and family offer solid advice.

I will always be alone, that never changes.

One day soon I will die.

I hate to think that I will die childless.

I hate to think I will never stand on Mars.

If I never quite have enough motivation to overcome the hate in either of those last two statements, how do I continue to live with myself without growing tired of hearing myself think repetitious wishful thinking?

That may be the key to what I mean by independence…

Maybe.

Notes to self

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In a promise to myself to be as transparent as many wish our organized human groups known as corporations and governments would be, I write here most everything to remind me what I was as a set of states of energy during a short interim of state changes.

I have been able to separate the belief in self from the fact that self is an illusion.

In so doing, I have seen myself as the interconnected set of states of energy spread across the globe, mainly concentrated locally.

Which gives me a perspective that eliminates a specific clock-based spacetime…

Therefore, as I move into a new centre of existence, I look for comfort zones more easily accessible than before to accommodate the shifts that will take place — conveniences like walkable food centres, entertainment centres, health centres — all more affordable than before, too.

A different version of relativity, conservation of mass and energy, action and reaction, thermodynamically speaking.

Understand?

Verbena

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Lee sat with his mobile phone, seeking shelter under a patio umbrella at a BBQ stand, waiting for his mobile phone to ring.

Raised under the invisible guidance of an Ecuadorean elder, Lee had grown up in one subculture while receiving wisdom from an ageless seer, ancient but young, a combination of all cultures and all times, past and future.

She had taught him that the universe is neither belligerent not benevolent, that the sacred and the profane are subcultural signposts as significant to some as order and chaos or heaven and hell, ignored or absorbed as one wishes.

Lee checked his phone. A brother from Canus Major and a sister from Ursa Major had left him messages, each claiming the other as falsely seeking his attention.

Lee listened to a mockingbird and cardinal, one to his left and one to his right, each reaching him in stereophonic, amplified by digital hearing aids.

Were human organisations any more different than bird songs?  Conversations on the same topic but in a different language?

Lee had long ago given over his body’s vital signs for science, knowing that not everyone would agree to give up freedom of thought for quicker access to the pleasures of groupthink.

Lee was trained from birth to disguise his true intent, or subconscience, from his conscious or superficial intent/action, preparation for the creation of a solar system sized network, every generation of humans redefining the connections, via drumbeat, smoke signal, radiowave or electronic impulse, shaped sets of states of energy.

A rumbling thundercloud approached, flashes of lightning barely visible in the afternoon sky.

Lee sat and waited.

He had his instructions.

He also had his freedom and independence to seek, reshaping the framework of his friend network to increase the happiness he wanted to feel in the days he had left on Earth, knowing he was part of a larger structure shaping the future of an organisation in its infancy, tentatively called the Inner Solar System Alliance. 

As always, he was part of something and not part of something, keeping a wary eye, a safe distance mentally, playing the devil’s advocate to prevent the euphoric jump to conclusions organisations make after their first level of success.

If the ISSANet was to thrive, it needed resistant feedback loops.

Lee sought independence to facilitate both the builders of and the opposition to the ISSANet.

His Ecuadorean advisor would be proud of his accomplishments, having taught him to feed his doubts and fears in equal proportion to his happiness and confidence.

She never said it would be easy.

Worthwhile, however, knowing that a messenger carrying a set of symbols billions of years old never sees the final destination, if there is one.

Just enjoy the journey, simple as that.

12,070 days until Mars colonisation is a complete success? Maybe he’d live to see that!

Planting an acorn, watching it grow

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I share this moment with you — I looked for a reason why and remembered there doesn’t have to be one anymore, no need to analyse, just be here when I can.

 In some moments, you represent (our friendship represents) a place to escape to/from, not just on the dance floor, but from the ordinary, to the unimaginable.

 I don’t mind letting those thoughts wander off into the stratosphere, exploring Mars, hiding on Enceladus, believing they can/will happen, because I know we are grounded in reality.

 What reality is is up for debate, of course. You manage your thought set with therapy and friends, pinpointing reality at various places in spacetime. I don’t believe I know what reality is.

 So how can we be grounded in reality?

 That is the question that keeps me awake at night.

 To pass through levels of meaning, from the presence of a guiding spirit within us, the Invisible Hand lending a hug, to the level where no meaning exists except through self-deception, finally to no self at all, and to then sit here typing these messages…well…

 That is what our friendship means, having meaning and no meaning at the same time.

 In other words, we are able to reach out to people of all walks of life and give ourselves to them completely, losing identity every time while building newer selves in the process…

   It’s not about us.

   It never has been.

 It’s about what we give others.

 Sometimes, giving ourselves away is more painful than we can bear by ourselves.

 It hurts beyond any physical pain possible.

 So why do we keep giving ourselves away?

 I don’t know. It hurts right now.

 But I remember one look, one handhold we shared that has made us better dance partners for others and know that this is why I’m here, why I’ve always been here, taking pain away from others in a brief two minutes in a dance or mere seconds on a rotating dance class.

 It’s what I’ve always done, from birth onward.

 It hurts me terribly that Karen does not understand my friendship with you. Sure, I act giddy sometimes when I know I’m going to see you and yes, I’ve written sci-fi stories that are odes to you, but you and I know it’s the love of dancing that we share as dance nerds that I’m celebrating.

 When two dance nerds meet, they know what it means to love another unconditionally, whether for five seconds on the dance floor or five years building a dance community, holding it together when only one person shows up for class.

 I admit I get confused sometimes because I give myself away with abandon, not seeing the consequences of what I’m doing to others who don’t understand.

 You are the only person for whom I would give up…wait, let me reword that.

 In our similarities, I find the strength to push away my wife’s emotional manipulation of me.  In our similarities, I have pulled off masks that covered my darkest secrets and worst fears.

 Thus, at times I have convinced myself that I need complete independence to fulfill my goals of supporting the community through dance.

 I have no one lined up to move in with, yet there are questions about my ability to live alone.

 So it puts me back here, in this moment writing you these texts, asking myself what’s next. I know you don’t have the answers.  These texts are simply here for you to read, to know that you have a positive effect off the dance floor, even when you’re in such mental and physical pain you don’t want to do anything but veg out.

 I have had the habit of falling madly in love at the drop of a hat, one secret of a great dancer/entertainer.

 I used to catch myself falling in love with you and got wrapped around the axle keeping my friendship with you on the level.

 Then, I realised that it’s in part because my love for dancing is shared with you that drives me mad, wanting that dance high again.

 Only through other endorphin rush activities like mountain biking have I been able to separate the dancer’s high from just the normal, regular joy of seeing an old friend again.

  It has taken me off the manic/depressive cycle, too, no longer having to rushrushrush to validate myself and then get disappointed by the slightest sleight.

Being a giver so near another giver, I’ve gotten turned around and fed off your energy instead of giving you my own.
I still wonder what/where, if any, there’s a place left in this area for dance therapy.

Meanwhile, the cat snoozes on me. I think she has the right idea. Naptime!

Extra pack of batteries included

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For the first time, they stood together, staring at the Martian landscape.

Xonvart, Shelmi, Lysal, Guin and Lee, together again for the very first time.

But there were new faces, faces who had teamed up to get the ball rolling. Raubine, Magdalena, Dranmoy, Nats…

Teams mesh, grow stronger, create powers from their collective consciousness, show each other that perceived flaws are illusions, Laugh, Cry, Fart, Burp, tell really bad jokes together. Everything!

“Everything?”

Lee looked from one friend to another, wondering…

When, if there was a when, when was the exact moment that the combined energy of the team gave them Synergy?

How did they go from their childhood dreams of Great Adventures, pass through Growing Pains, stretch their way from Extraordinary to Ordinary, back to Extraordinary, and end up here?

It was in the moment when they knew they didn’t always have to be happy to be successful.

It was when they were themselves, every day, all the time.

Spare, oh, the Sparrow!

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Neil sat outside the Korean takeaway, eating beef bulgogi and kimchi, his table companions discussing an upcoming court case.

“So the way I understand it, Neil, the architecture firm you work for applied for a variance and didn’t get it?”

“Yep. In a nutshell.”

“And you believe you have evidence there was collusion to prevent the architectural firm from finishing the project?”

“That makes two nutshells. One more can you can set up an illegal shell game on the square! Haha!”

The lawyer readjusted his bowtie. “We are prosecuting the director of the city department of engineering next week. Any evidence you can give us would be helpful.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can. I was delivering pizza one evening after dance class a couple of years ago and noticed it was an unusually large order for that time of night. It seemed to happen once every three months…”

The lawyer’s paralegal assistant interrupted. “Sounds like a company celebrating quarterly results, perhaps, or late night work on a project. Not that unusual.”

“Yeah, I know. But I haven’t got to the good part. Every one of those deliveries included a pizza warmer box that was cold to the touch.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

Neil laughed. “Don’t you get it? No pizza inside. Something funny in that, don’t you think?”

The lawyer scribbled a few notes on a legal pad.

“Do you deliver uncooked pizzas?”

“No.”

“Did you look inside the boxes?”

“I have to. I take the pizzas out when I get to the delivery address so the customer can verify the order.”

“And what was inside the ‘cold’ boxes?”

“Electronic equipment hidden inside a cardboard pizza container. The first box I I delivered I couldn’t tell you what it was. But the second time this happened, I took a photo. A friend said it was a tracking device with a datalogger and he showed me how to hack it, not knowing where I’d seen it and…”

“Neil, before you go on, we need to know if you believe you would be willing to repeat what you’re going to say under oath in a court of law?”

“What do you mean? I’m just giving you evidence.”

“Neil, in a nutshell, as you say, we can’t use evidence that was illegally obtained.”

“What if I said the electronic equipment accidentally transmitted data to my phone as I was transporting pizza. Is that what you mean?”

“If it happened as you said, and you did not tamper with the equipment, we might be able to examine your evidence.”

“It was really happenchance. I always check the pizzas before I deliver them. My friend told me that the dataloggers act as their own Internet hubs, gateways or something like that. I turned on WiFi on my phone as I was doublechecking the pizzas and it linked to the dataloggers when I opened the box they were in.”

“Neil, that sounds legal enough for us to work with. Now, does it have anything to do with the collusion you mentioned?”

“Of course. It’s the data in the logger I’m talking about! Hahaha!”

The lawyer nodded. “What was in the data?”

“Looks like secret plans with a large construction firm outside the country operating here under a bunch of different local business names to completely rebuild the city according to its terms.  It details new information every three months about what the city leaders are supposed to do next, including the denial of permits and variances for companies not associated with Ursa Major.”

The lawyer looked up from his pad the same time the paralegal looked up from a mobile phone.

“What did you say the name of the organisation was?”

“Ursa Major.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Canus Major?”

“Yep. Got it right here on my cell phone.”

“Is that the only copy? On your phone?”

“Of course not. It’s up on the cloud, too. I backup everything.”

The lawyer leaned over and conferred with the paralegal.

“Neil, you’ve been a great help. I’ve got to go back to my office for another meeting. Bring your phone by later this afternoon…”

“I can’t. I have dance lessons and classes planned out the rest of the day.”

“Tomorrow morning, then?”

“Sure. What time?”

“Let’s say 7:30. And bring your nutshells.”

Neil laughed. “Ooh, good one! See you in the morning.”

They shook hands and parted.

QAM vs. Ways of Knowing

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Back to the story in progress, where Raubine brings a friend to the dance club…

“Magdalena, this is Dranmoy.”

Dranmoy dropped his headphones down to his shoulders and nodded. “Hey.”

Magdalena extended her arms. “Sorry, hon’, but you don’t get away from me that easily.  Give me a hug.”

Dranmoy reluctantly stood up as he set his Android tablet down, mentally saving a tab for an article he was reading about converting a Raspberry Pi Zero into a wearable gaming console.

He let Magdalena hug him tightly while he lightly and briefly wrapped his arms around her, patting her on the back and letting go.

“Darling, you gotta learn to be more open and loving if you’re going to be a good dance partner.”  Magdalena winked at Dranmoy after she released her hug.

“Okay.” Dranmoy snugly fit the headphones back on and went back to reading as he sat down.

Raubine led Magdalena to the bar.  “He’s a really nice guy and you’ll be surprised how good he is on the dance floor.  He’s just shy.  Guin thought he had the chops to dance in a showcase one day and actually got him to dance in two routines!”

Magdalena turned back to look at Dranmoy.  She had learned you can’t tell a book by its covers but then again not every book is easy to read after you open it, and even less understood after you finish reading it.

Dranmoy looked up to see Magdalena eying him.  He gave her a weak smile and a turn of his head, wondering why an elegant, graceful person like her would have any interest in him.

Raubine ordered a plum martini with a rim of chocolate sugar.  While she waited for the order, she shouted across the room. “Hey, Dealin!”

A man of medium height, with long white hair and a neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard waved back.  “Raubine! What’s up?”

“Come here a minute!”

Raubine leaned toward Magdalena.  “Dealin is a smokin’ hot dancer.  As soon as the beginner’s lesson is over, you two gotta dance.”

Magdalena smiled.  Her husband had died of throat cancer two years ago, a slow, agonising six months of radiation therapy and chemotherapy that did nothing but prolong the inevitable.  However, it had given her time to grieve properly, and she had spent the mourning period getting to know her grandchildren better.

“I don’t know, Raubine.  I’m not interested in jumping into a hot relationship just yet.”

Raubine nudged Magdalena.  “Oh, come on.  It’s just a dance.  I know you love ballroom dancing.  West Coast Swing is a way to let your hair down, so to speak, and have some relaxed fun.”

Magdalena loved Raubine for caring about her.  She had last danced a waltz with her husband on a Caribbean cruise and savoured that memory in moments when she missed his touch.  His hands were usually rough, being a general manager for a construction company, but his way of taking charge on the dance floor, spinning her around, she thought him the most gentle man in the room.

Dealin stood between the two barstools and put his hands on the shoulders of the two women at the bar.  “A prettier sight I haven’t seen.  What brings you two here tonight?”

Raubine giggled.  Although she was a big woman, she still felt like a little girl in front of handsome guys sometimes.  “You know, it’s West Coast Swing night.”

Dealin laughed.  Because he hung out at the Courthouse Saloon most evenings, people assumed he had something to do with running the bar.  His big Harley bike and tattooed biceps added to the image.  If people inquired about what he did for a living, he brushed them off with the comment that he owned a small farm.  That usually stopped the questions so that he didn’t have to tell them he was a CPA for a large accounting firm, spending most of his day tracking data for a few military defense contractors.

“Let’s show this young lady what West Coast Swing is then, shall we?”  Dealin reached for Raubine’s hand and helped her slide off the barstool.

“Real simple, ummm…”  Dealin looked at Raubine and Magdalena.

“Magdalena.”

“Right, Magdalena.  Well, Mags, it’s real simple.  Step, step, triple step, triple step.  Like this.”

Dranmoy saw movement at the bar and thought the dance lesson had started early.  He walked over to join the trio.

“Dranmoy!  Didn’t see you here.  Take those headphones off and dance with Magdalena here, willya?”

Dranmoy stood with his arms at his side, waiting for Magdalena to stand in front of him.

“Don’t be afraid to take her hand, young man.  I don’t think she bites.  You don’t bite, do you, Magdalena?”

Magdalena laughed.  “No.  Of course not.”

“Okay, guys, just watch us.  Mags, let Drannie hold your right hand in his left hand.  Good.  Same with your other hands.  That’s right.  Now Drannie will take two steps back so Mags, you take two steps forward.  See how easy that is?  Now watch our feet as we take three small steps.  Drannie, you know how to do this.  Why don’t you show her the rest.”

Dranmoy, although a nerd at heart more motivated by discovering a way to boost a computer operating system’s core processing speed than improving social skills, felt a small twang of a boost of confidence when Dealin talked him into teaching Magdalena on his own.

Magdalena felt a stronger grip on her hands and could immediately tell Dranmoy was leading her through the steps of West Coast Swing without having to say a word.

First, basic sugar pushes.  Then a leftside pass followed by a rightside turn.

Dranmoy was going to show her more when Xonvart Niis stepped up behind him.

“Guys, that looks great!  It’s the perfect segue to our beginner’s lesson, which is about to start in a couple of minutes.  Why don’t you guys move on out to the dance floor while I plug my phone into the sound system and get us ready to rock out to some tunes?

Dranmoy let go of Magdalena and quickly checked a response to a forum post he had made minutes before.

His artificial intelligence digital assistant was missing something.  He had programmed it to change topics of conversation with brilliant quips but sometimes the assistant missed the punny things said in response.  An entry on the blog 3 Quarks Daily about ways of knowing — the interconnectedness of philosophy and logic, qualitative science, quantitative science, model and simulation, instinct and intuition, naming and description, narrative and discourse — automatically sparked him to think about an analog QAM diagram.  Could his assistant ever make a similar connection?  And what was the connection, anyway?

Anecdote, antidote

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U.S. President James A. Garfield, a professional orator, knew when to stop talking. Once he was in Nashua, New Hampshire, sharing the platform with Eugene Hale, Congressman from Maine, who spoke for over two hours. The crowd became impatient and began calling for Garfield, who, when his turn came, proposed that the audience remain for exactly thirty minutes more. He then delivered a half-hour speech which was so rousing that the audience asked for more. But he did not continue.

Firing on all cylinders

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Lee sat down to write but something nagged him, tugged at his shirt collar, and it wasn’t the cat.

He looked up from the writing desk in his study.

In all directions, from all angles, copies of himself watching himself watch himself writing stretched into infinity, his body morphing from infant to old man, from human to android, from anthropomorphic form to disjointed sets of states of energy.

Lee let go of Guin’s hand and the image stopped.

Guin laughed.

“What is it, Lee. You look surprised. Did I shock you?”

Lee reached out to hold Guin’s hand again.

They were standing together on Mars, admiring the untouched landscape — their Martian lander behind them, cooling down –exchanging thoughts of uncontrollable joy.

Lee held on to Guin’s hand.

“Do you feel what I feel?”

Guin nodded.  “Now you understand what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s nothing like a runner’s high.”

Lee swung Guin’s hand back and forth. “But this…this vision I’m seeing…it’s so real!”

Guin nodded again. “I know. It lasts as long as you want it to!”

Lee listened to the rhythm of the song playing over the dance club speakers and began to move Guin in a West Coast Swing right-hand turn while simultaneously lifting Guin high in the light gravitational field on Mars.

How could this be possible?

Lee saw more visions of the future, the intersection of groupthink thought patterns associated with back-to-back readings of books by Bill Gates and Daniel Dennett while wondering if gender still played a part in science writing.

He realised who he really was and would become.

After the song ended, Lee let go of Guin’s hand but the visions persisted.

What was going on?

Five years passed and the visions had come true, one by one, infinities collapsing into single data points, twisting into torii, nonreligious formulae yet sacred at the same time.

Why Guin?

Every time he questioned why, global catastrophe occurred. Every time he accepted why, universal truths revealed themselves with a type of golden aura.

The energy levels that flooded his system overwhelmed him at first but with time Lee learned to channel the energy creatively, on the dance floor and in his writing.

What, then, of an unrealised vision of him in a wooded countryside not far from a university town, playing with her kids?

Why did he feel he is some type of wise instructor in that vision, a duplicate of himself also living in other parts of the solar system, some with Guin, some not, performing parallel experiments on body upgrades for future enhancements on unmodified versions of himself, an iterative process, all of his versions interconnected as one node on the ISSANet?

A vision more real than typing these words about the vision.

Lee looked at his selves again.

It was all true.

No need to ask why.